sweating profusely on the subway

i guess those years of laughing at my line bro.'s hyperhidrosis are coming back to me. with temperatures climbing into the mid-90s every day, and humidity levels wrapping around your exposed flesh like a guest room comforter, it's hard to maintain a suitable appearance after doing any walking outside.

while some manage to play it cool, the less fortunate, like me, are publicly shaming themselves with visible coats of sweat.

i walk three blocks and through a building to get to the subway in the evenings, but by the time i get to the platform, it looks like i just got finished sprinting. and since there's virtually no air circulating underground, i suffer until my train arrives.

the subway cars provide no relief. they're packed like boxes of raisins and the sheer volume of passengers makes the air conditioning as powerless as a sleeping infant's breath.

and here i am, looking like a coach who's just been doused with Gatorade, trying to keep my head bowed so that no one looks at me with concern.

meanwhile, guys in full suits are bone dry.

i don't understand.

and then there was that one time . . .

when i pulled the fire alarm at Largo High School for no apparent reason.

i was 13, i think, and my mom was teaching GED classes at Largo in the evenings. i would ride to the school w/ her and do my homework in the library until her last class ended. sometimes, i'd finish really quickly and walk the halls, peeking in classrooms and looking for lockers left ajar. to a small, frail eighth grader, high school seemed like some ominous, uncharted world.

one evening, after i had finished my homework and made footprints all over the school's dirty tile floors, i started ambling around the library entrance, looking out the huge rectangular windows at the parking lot.

in my reflection, i saw a strange looking fire alarm. it wasn't like the ones in my school. no, this one was larger, a brighter shade of red, and was covered plastic bubble.

i walked up to the contraption and read the instructions on the bubble:

REMOVE COVER TO PULL FIRE ALARM

so i thought to myself, okay.

i tugged at the bottom panel of the cover and it popped off like a wine cork. much to my surprise, however, the alarm sounded immediately. i didn't have to pull the alarm. the entire thing was a lie.

as i clumsily tried to re-attach the bubble and stop the alarm, people started emptying out of the library and classrooms. one of the math tutors, catching me red-handed, said, "Man, why would you do something like that?"

i had no answer. i was entirely too embarrassed to speak.

i went to the restroom to pee, and when stepped away form the urinal to go wash my hands, i noticed i'd gotten a small, oval-shaped patch of Balla Powder on the front of my pants.

i brushed at the powder w/ my right hand, but when i wouldn't disappear, i took a few steps back from the mirror and started strumming my crotch like a banjo. i mean, vigorously, man. barn jam in Kentucky style. i even lifted one leg.




but, what's that?

what's that smell?




the piercing odor of excrement, not noticeable during my cleaning, was now wrapping itself around my eyes and nose like a Groucho Marx disguise.

in the mirror, i saw a gentleman's legs clenched close in a very girlish fashion. his stall was silent. i'm sure he was on the verge of letting one go before i walked in and urinated on his privacy. now, he was anally bridling his shame like Samuel Ogle's driver yielding his horse-drawn carriage at a river.

i stood motionless for another minute before exiting.

we are both ashamed.

i'm going to crash my high school reunion

i RSVP'd months ago per the organizer's instructions, but i never received a confirmation.

now, i'm not receiving updates like everyone else.

fuck around . . .

it could have been Shady Grove, Springfield, or some distant place far south of the county. it could have been Bryans Road, Marbury -- a steering wheel-clinching drive over the Harry Nice Memorial Bridge.

he couldn't make out the destination name on the passing train's digital display. it was late at night and the system didn't care to give anyone a sense of certainty about their travels. the rest of the world was in cars by now. only the forgotten -- the late shift workers, the mentally ill, the homeless -- inhabited the trains at this hour.

he stood on the platform waiting, alternating glances between his watch (11:08 PM) and a torn front page of the day's Washington Examiner that had been blown a just enough for the headline to face him.

Gridlock

it could have been a 15 minute drive to her apartment instead of this.

after college, he used to drive to her apartment. his car, nearly his age, would idle at stop lights, sometimes drifting backwards. his music system was antiquated -- a cassette player that would "pop" when a tape was inserted. he'd use the stiff rectangular buttons to cue up love songs to take his mind off his arduous journeys and put his mind on her.

he'd drum his fingers on the dashboard and lean to close to her, singing off-key.

she'd say, "pay attention. we're drifting backwards again."

once, while reaching for a tape, he rear-ended a hot dog stand that was attached to a truck, parking to set up its contents. there was no damage to either, but he left his car there that day. figured it just wasn't worth the hassle anymore.

the stand owner watched in silence as he removed the keys from the car, crossed the street, and disappeared down a subway station escalator.

it could have been a weekend excursion -- a long, lazy weekend of lavish spending and languishing in an expansive room with a view.

but instead it was the evening's trip home on the subway, nestled against each other on the worn orange seats. she'd lead the way onto the train to grab a seat for them both and inspect the contents before they both sat.

he loved her hair and would use his index finger to make loopy patterns in it as they traveled home. he'd shade her face when the subway went above ground, saying she was too beautiful for the intensity of the sun. sometimes, he'd coo in her ear, oblivious to those seated nearby.

and when departing at his stop, he'd look back at her as the door were opening, blowing a kiss in her direction. some passengers looked on confused; she giggled and rolled her eyes.

it could have been a the latest gadget -- some real cutting edge, state of the art shit -- but it was the same flip phone he'd had for years. the face was cracked, and the creaking of the phone opening would make him wince, but he'd do it just to read her old text messages and listen to her old voicemails.

it was too dangerous a trip for anyone else, but for him, she'd walk to the nearest subway station to meet him when he made his weekend visits. draped in thin jacket, she'd stand atop the station stairs, perfectly centered in the lights, looking over her shoulders every few minutes.

it was 12:11 AM and he was later than usual.

but when he arrived, they embraced and shared a kiss, resuming the evening's love play.

it could have been a sprawling new home, punching buttons on a car's new digital console, a lifestyle-changing promotion. a lot of things.

but it was them. and that's all they needed.